Bright Young Things
by Snape's Nightie
Summary: Lucius Malfoy is 20 years old when his father's death revolutionises his life. But with great power comes great responsibility. Lots of Slytherin cunning, featuring SSLM SLASH later, some LMNB
1. Prologue

At 20, Lucius Malfoy and his associates are smart, rich and reckless. And they have big plans. Slytherin debauchery, featuring underage!SS/LM SLASH later.

A/N: Characters and situations belong to Her Majesty, Queen JK of Rowling. There's no way I could come up with something so fabulous. Tut.

It all began in earnest after the death of Sir Icarus Malfoy. This happened two days after Christmas when his son was twenty years old, too young, some people commented, to inherit such great wealth and responsibility. Naturally Lucius disagreed, and, still in his stylish Chinese silk mourning robes, smoothed his blond locks and took his first steps towards world domination.

Prologue 

Sadly, it was not a dark and stormy night, but being late December in Wiltshire, it was a dark and icy night, and Lucius Malfoy had a splitting headache. The house elves were still clearing up after the legendary Malfoy Manor Boxing Day Soirée, the great Christmas tree in the entrance hall was looking droopy after Araminta Wilkes' experiment with the billywig brandy, and the bright holly garlands weaving through the banister rails were looking distinctly dishevelled. The evening had lived up to its reputation though. The cream of wizarding society had congregated at the Manor to discuss politics, show off the latest fashionable presents they had received and of course, to drink themselves silly on spiced wine. The Daily Prophet society columnist traditionally had her drink spiked at the outset, and was stretchered home at about 8pm before the really compromising behaviour began.

Lucius had unwisely supplemented the intoxication of the fruity mulled wine by smoking some unusual herbs which Rookwood had brought back from his tour of South America. The hallucinations had been out of this world, but left an apocalyptic hangover. Every few minutes he had to tentatively check that there wasn't actually a ten foot axe embedded in his skull. He needed a very strong potion, but any movement towards acquiring one was not a pleasant thought.

The last few days had been disorientating, so he wasn't sure what time it was, but it was definitely late. Unable to bear the torture any longer, he kicked off the quilt and hauled himself to his feet to go and find Snape. He would know what to do. Though he was five years Malfoy's junior, he thrived on knowing everything about everything, often putting Sir Icarus' learned old friends to shame. Snape stayed at the Manor whenever his mother had one of her 'episodes' during school holidays, silently gliding through the fireplace with a polite nod to Lucius' father.

"Ah, Severus," Icarus would greet him with an odd mix of pleasure and regret. "Mother gone barmy again, eh? Can't be helped. Make yourself at home, child." And Snape would disappear with glee into the hallowed recesses of the Malfoy library. Lucius did not consider him part of the family, far too scruffy and weird for that, but over the years he had grown accustomed to his presence in the house, haunting its quiet corners like a dark little ghost. But what knowledge lurked behind the glaring black eyes! A mind like that was both highly dangerous and highly useful, or so Lucius hoped as he staggered from his room into the corridor. Snape was bound to know of some potion or other. He patted the top of his head gingerly. Still no axe.

As he neared the landing, he heard his father speaking in low, urgent tones. Since the death of his wife, Sir Icarus was invariably drunk in the evenings and Lucius was in no mood for a rambling conversation about his parents' youthful exploits in cornfields or whatever. He almost went back to bed. But something was not right. His father was a cheerful man and a jolly drunk, so the irritated voice he was hearing confused the ailing young man.

"No! Sir Icarus, please. Let go of me!" Snape? This was making no sense. He edged further towards the landing and caught snatches of what his father was saying.

"…don't pretend that you don't…slut…always lurking about in this house…" Striding forwards, Lucius opened his mouth to ask what the bloody hell was going on when he saw his father push a struggling Severus against the wall.

Then everything happened at terrifying speed. Lucius reached in his pocket for a wand which wasn't there, a tremendous burst of raw magic enveloped the landing, his father was blasted backwards against the banister, where he teetered for a moment then disappeared downwards. There was a gasp and a dull, meaty thump. Total silence.

The air was still crackling with wandless magic as Malfoy and Snape stared at each other, wide-eyed. Lucius recovered first, and peered over the rail at the large figure on the flagstones of the entrance hall twenty feet below them, lying very, very still. They descended breathlessly, leaned over and checked the obviously broken neck for a pulse.

"Oh," said Lucius.

"I just killed your father," observed Snape evenly.

"Yes," said Lucius.

Suddenly back in the real world, he began to pace the hall.

"We can tell the Ministry that he was pissed and toppled over, everyone knows he's hardly been sober since Mother died, and his bloodstream must be 90 proof anyway. We'll say we heard the thud and came down to investigate. Go and put your pyjamas on." Snape was staring at him, with a look of total incredulity. "What, Snape?"

"I killed him! Your father! Don't you mind?"

"Was it deliberate?"

"NO! Of course not!"

"Well then," he resumed his pacing. "I suppose they'll send Lady Brackhammer to investigate. She's my godfather's sister, I'm sure I can get her to sort this out as neatly as possible."

Snape had started trembling at the shock. He sat down abruptly on the bottom stair, suddenly looking like a frightened teenage boy.

"Pyjamas. Now, please," Malfoy spoke gently but firmly. Huge black eyes stared balefully at the older wizard.

"Look, Severus. He was my father. I loved him, but he never got over losing his daughter and wife, and he has never been really happy since then. I'm sorry he's gone, but we can't change the facts." Lucius broke into a smile. "Don't feel guilty, kid. I'm now the richest twenty year old wizard in the country. You gave me the best Christmas present I've ever had."

Snape digested this solemnly as he made his way slowly up the stairs. When he reached the top he turned back with a self-conscious little smirk, calling down:

"Merry Christmas, Lucius!"

And Lucius laughed.

…………..

And so it begins!

Next chapter: We'll see just how a suddenly filthy rich young wizard starts using his power and money with no one to impose limits. And lots of parties and misbehaving with the rest of the former slytherins!

A/N: Bright Young Things is the title of film by the wonderful Mr. Stephen Fry, an adaptation of Evelyn Waugh's novel Vile Bodies. I am not basing this fic on their plot, but rather the idea of glamorous, young aristocrats with nothing to do but play all day, until someone gets hurt.

Thank you for reading, I would love to know what you think! Big smoochy kisses, S.N. x


	2. Happy New Life

Sir Icarus was lowered into the family vault on New Year's Eve, the event solemnly witnessed by the Minister of Magic, various dignitaries, representatives from the many charities he had patronised, family, colleagues, friends and his only son. Fifty-eight was no age for a wizard to die, they all agreed in reverent tones, yet he had achieved so much in his short life! And, they supposed, he was at peace with his beloved Lady Aph and dear, beautiful little Julia, safe from the demons which had driven him to drink.

Lucius had played the perfect host during the ceremony and the wake, with ample assistance from Rastaban Lestrange, and his godfather Algy Cholmondley-Fanshawe who had sobbed silently into his enormous yellow handkerchief all afternoon. By five-thirty the wake was over, the great and the good had departed, full of brandy and mince pies, leaving Lucius and his friends alone. Araminta flung herself down onto a chaise-longue and thrust a foot in the air.

"Razzie, be a dear and get these blasted boots off for me," she pouted. Rastaban Lestrange muttered about the existence of perfectly good spells for that sort of thing, but did as he was told. "They're the loveliest boots in the world," she continued, "But they hurt like hell."

"Funerals are so utterly depressing," sighed Rodolphus, lighting a cigarette with his wand and inhaling deeply.

"They're supposed to be, idiot," snorted Bellatrix, having no patience with melancholy or solemn reflection. She sidled over to Lucius standing pensively at the fireplace and massaged his shoulders soothingly, but with a spark of something predatory in her eyes. "So how does it feel to be Lord of the Manor?"

"Wonderful," he grinned. "Rather dizzying, but wonderful. I've spent a week with the lawyers, the accountants, the Ministry and every kind of clerk you can think of, and I still haven't finished measuring all the assets. I don't understand how, but it manages to be simultaneously wildly exciting and brain-curdlingly tedious. But I suppose that's part of growing up."

"And this little hut is all yours too!" beamed Araminta, looking around the room as if conducting a hasty valuation. "Found out any interesting secrets now you're the only master?"

"One or two," he replied guardedly. "Though I admit the secret passage between my father's study and the wine cellar came as no surprise." Bellatrix found this hilarious. Charging their glasses with the remains of the funeral brandy, she raised the toast.

"To the late, great Sir Ick! And to Lady Aph!" They downed their drinks in honour of the illustrious dead Malfoys.

"Now," grinned Bellatrix with glee, "About that wine cellar…"

The combined effect of having spent most of the day on their best behaviour, knowing that there was no one else in the house to be disturbed, and being overexcited about the arrival of a highly promising New Year meant that the party became very crazy very quickly. The gramophone was placed under a triple sonorus charm, forcing even the portraits to cover their ears, and the dining room was completely cleared of furniture, making a superb dancefloor. Narcissa arrived at about ten o'clock, fresh from the more sedate Black family celebrations ("Sooo tedious, Bell, you were right to skive off. They think I went to bed with a headache!") followed half an hour later by Augustus Rookwood and a tray of suspiciously herbal-tasting cauldron cakes.

Lucius watched the unfolding chaos with a benevolent air, pleased that the first house party was going so well. There were so many choices ahead of him, he thought with a contented sigh. Further studies, a job at Gringott's, something in the Ministry, charity work, or even an idle life like so many of his friends. Generations of shrewd investments had ensured that no Malfoy would have to actually earn their own living, but there was an unwritten rule that total dissipation was 'not done'. No, Lucius knew he was destined for some great purpose, he just needed a little time to decide what.

Midnight approached, and Rodolphus had removed the helmet from one of the suits of armour and put it on, chasing the others around the room shrieking and falling over in a very unruly version of Blind Man's Bluff. Bellatrix dived under the table to escape, and Dolph, cheating shamelessly, raised his visor to peek and crawled in after her, accompanied by salacious whooping and cries of "cheat!" from the rest of the room. Lucius was clapping and jeering with the rest, when Rastaban tapped him on the shoulder and beckoned him away.

The conservatory was not the ideal place to be at this time of year, though heating spells kept it tolerably warm. Hundreds of panes of glass looking out into a rainy winter's night robbed the comfortable wicker furniture of its relaxed summer elegance, and the candles flickered so violently in untraceable drafts that monstrous shadows jerked from corner to corner. As a child, Lucius had once played a joke on Severus by locking him in, hoping to frighten the smaller boy. It backfired somewhat when he had marched in an hour later as triumphant liberator, and an uncowed little Snape had stalked him through the shadows, his breathy cackles echoing terrifyingly through the room before the ominous click of the lock announced that the captor had become the captive. Adult Lucius shivered at the memory of his first lesson in Why One Should Not Underestimate Severus Snape.

"Cold?" asked Rastaban mildly.

"No," answered Lucius, "Just remembering something. What did you want to talk about?"

"Oh, you know. The future. Your plans. Politics."

"I haven't made any real decisions yet. Why politics? You think I should enter the Ministry?"

Lestrange gave a long-suffering sigh.

"The Ministry is a creaking dinosaur run by old men too afraid of change to question the status quo. Even if you became Minister of Magic, the red tape would choke you before you could implement the most minor change."

The conversation had turned unexpectedly serious. Rastaban had always been a passionate young man, argumentative even - questioning everything he was told and permanently in detention at school for back-chatting teachers and even, on one legendary occasion, getting into a violent screaming match with McGonagall over why the wearing of a house tie was an infringement of basic human rights. Lucius made an effort to think soberly.

"Well, yes. But that's the way life is."

"Why?" Lestrange's brown eyes bored into Malfoy's blue ones.

"Why what?"

"Why should you, an intelligent young wizard, be like all the other sheep."

"Sheep?" Lucius bristled, "I don't believe I follow you."

"That's the way life is. That's how we've always done it. It was ever thus," his tone was mocking, and Lucius was beginning to get annoyed. "Can't you see what's happening? Millennia of wizarding traditions are being wiped out by new-fangled muggle rubbish. Clothes, music, language to name but a few and we just sit passively and let it happen."

"I know what you mean, but that's no danger to our society, really."  
Rastaban was on his feet now, brown curls flying out from his head in all directions.

"Yes it is! They say we are better living apart from muggles, keeping ourselves to ourselves from choice, but it's not true. The old men are afraid. Imagine! Afraid of a bunch of idiots with no magic who can't even cure the common cold!" Warming to his theme, Lestrange was fervently pacing the room while Lucius stared at him, open-mouthed. "We live in hiding, concealing ourselves from them. Why? Because hundreds of years ago a handful dotty old witches fell foul of a bunch of religious maniacs. What's the point? A few well-placed curses and we would be ruling the world, all the wealth and wonder we could image. The human race would be better-off – muggles as well as wizards – our potions could cure all their illnesses, their puny wars would be settled much faster and with less bloodshed! Can you imagine that world, Malfoy? Can you?"

"I…" began Lucius, not knowing what to think. He wasn't certain he could imagine it, actually, but Rastaban was not listening. He continued his impassioned speech, voice echoing against the smooth flagstones, drowning out the sound of the dark panes rattling in the wind.

"How many times have you or your family been in trouble with the Ministry for doing something perfectly natural which happened to affect the odd muggle?"

Lucius frowned. Many, many times, actually. His personal worst had been when that brainless muggle woman who could barely string a sentence together had witnessed him performing a very minor time-telling spell just after he left school. She had been in gibbering foul-mouthed hysterics and he had received an official warning, a fine and twenty types of grief from his father and everyone else, but no actual harm had been done to anyone. He nodded to Ras, who went on.

"Why? Why do we punish ourselves? Why does the Ministry continue its repression, making us all suffer for the supposed 'greater good'?"

"Lucius!" Araminta chose that moment to stagger through the door, a bottle of Sir Icarus' – no, _Lucius'_ – finest vintage champagne tucked under her arm. "There you are! Do come on, it's nearly midnight!" She grabbed his arm and pulled him back to the dining room where everyone was hastily filling glasses and exchanging incantations for celebration spells in preparation. Rastaban followed, looking thin-lipped.

"We will continue our discussion later on, Ras," Lucius promised. He bowed his head solemnly in agreement.

"Ready!" squealed Bellatrix. "Ten!" They all joined in the countdown, except Rodolphus who was being quietly sick into the 15th century knight's helmet, Lucius noted sourly. "…Four! Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!" The air was filled with sparkling stars, curling streamers and some impressive purple roaring dragon-illusions. Rookwood cranked up the gramophone again, and a popular American muggle disco tune started the noisy revellers dancing again. Lestrange flared his nostrils in disgust and stalked out of the room. Lucius was in no mood to digest the rather interesting things he had just heard, so he knocked back his drink and accepted a pipe containing Merlin-knew-what from Augustus, his last coherent thought being along the lines of 'but muggles have all the best tunes'.

…….

Lucius awoke on the first day of the rest of his life with a furry mouth and little recollection of the previous evening. He was also face-to-face with a pair of feet whose toenails had been carefully painted iridescent green. He studied them lazily for a few moments before the sound of a quiet chuckle came from the doorway. He looked up to see a thin, dark figure smirking into the room.

"Wrong Black, Lucius," mocked Snape delightedly.

"Eh?" groaned Malfoy, not really ready to understand anything yet. Snape merely grinned even wider and pointed to the other side of the bed. Lucius' eyes widened. Bellatrix. Uh-oh.

"Bugger off, brat," he hissed, before noticing with immense relief that they were both fully clothed. More or less, anyway. Feet padded gently away on the think carpet. "Snape! Where are you going?"  
"I'm buggering off," came the soft reply. "I think I'll go downstairs and get some breakfast. I haven't spoken to Narcissa in a long while." Lucius was on his feet in an instant, his hands at the dark boy's collar.

"Don't you dare, you little swine!" he hissed. On the bed, he heard Bella stir and give a little moan. Not yet ready to sptart sparring with her, he hustled them both out of the door and closed it silently behind himself, not releasing his grip on Severus. "What do you want?"

Snape gave an attempt at a casual shrug, but his face betrayed a hint of anxiety.

"This is your house now," he began, looking at the floor and avoiding Malfoy's eyes. "Any decisions about entertaining house guests rest with you."

Lucius was managing to shake off his lethargy, but was still not in the mood for cryptic conversations. Was Snape sulking because he hadn't been allowed to come to the party? Or because he knew that even if he had, the grown-up crowd would not have wanted some weird kid getting under their feet?

"Just spit it out, I don't have the energy to mess around yet," his tone was harsher than he intended, so he let go of Severus' robes to show that he wasn't really angry.

"Mother's having another episode. I wondered if I was still welcome at the Manor," the voice was so quiet Lucius only managed to catch the question because they were standing close together. He gave a snort of laughter.

"Is that all you're worried about?" Severus nodded miserably. Lucius was inexplicably overcome with the urge to give him a hug. He shook his head to clear the odd notion. "This house is your second home, Severus. I hope you will continue to use it as such." Snape's mis-matched, angular little face shone with relief. Had he honestly believed that Lucius would throw him out? For an intelligent child, he could be incredibly dense at times. Fighting the urge to _cuddle _the brat once more, Lucius cleared his throat and punched him chummily on his bony shoulder, adopting a manly bantering tone. "Now, did you mention breakfast?"

"Pork and leek sausages," he beamed back, rubbing his arm. "And eggs benedict, and kippers and kedgeree, and Rookwood was making prairie oysters too. They look disgusting!"

The house elves had certainly outdone themselves that New Year's day. The former Slytherins ate enough to feed an army as they sat around the table trying to remember what they had been up to the previous night. It seemed odd to have them all chattering merrily, still in their mourning robes from the funeral, downing Rookwood's special hangover-busting prairie oysters as they had the morning after the NEWT results party.

As they donned fur cloaks and hats for a post-brunch walk in the grounds, Rodolphus began teasing Snape about insanity running in the family. Lucius looked up from his conversation with Narcissa about the potential renovation of certain parts of the Manor, to see that Severus had gone quieter than usual and was hanging back behind the group with a calculating expression on his unusually pink face, his breath steaming like dragon afterburn in the freezing air. Having an idea of what that meant, Lucius took Narcissa's arm an quickened his pace to put more distance between them and Rodolphus.

"What are you doing?" asked Narcissa, turning her rich blue eyes on him. "The ground is quiet slippery, we should be careful."

"Trust me," Lucius smiled confidently. There was a moment's silence as they hurried along an immaculate gravel pathway into a secluded little grotto, the sounds of the others talk and laughter muted by the conifers.

"Actually, I do," came the quiet reply. They stopped walking and studied each other. Really, Malfoy thought, the woman was perfect. How often did one find a beautiful, pure-blooded witch of good family who actually had a brain? Girls of her class were often removed from school after their OWLs and sent to one of those specialist finishing schools to learn how to arrange flowers, host parties and land a rich husband – all of which were considered more important for their futures than worrying their pretty little heads over intensive studies. Narcissa had batted her long eyelashes at her father and told him sweetly that she would indeed be enrolling at the Zermatt Academy for Gentlewitches, but only _after_ sitting her NEWTs at Hogwarts. Bellatrix gleefully reported that Galileo Black's monocle had fallen right out of his eye, bounced off his cucumber sandwich and landed on the floor, where one of the more excitable Labrador puppies had eaten it and promptly vomited all over the priceless antique Persian magic carpet. It was at that beautifully chaotic moment that Andromeda had chosen to stand up and announce that she was pregnant with the child of the scruffy muggle-born musician whom Galileo had chased off the property a month earlier for having ideas above his station as regarded the courtship of the eldest child of the Black dynasty. Mrs Black had taken to her bed for several weeks in order to avoid the worst of the scandalised gossip, and had developed an absolute mania for making sure her two younger daughters made respectable marriages. At subsequent dinner parties, Lucius always found himself placed between them. It was really rather amusing.

Narcissa was standing very close now, still looking immaculate despite the cold.

"I saw Rastaban collar you last night," she said sweetly. "Is he still recruiting for his political action group?"

"Group?" Lucius struggled to remember the odd exchange in the conservatory. "Oh dear. He made no mention of a group. A gang of hot-headed young men desperate to put the world to rights through revolution, no doubt."

"No, actually," she contradicted his sneer. "They seem efficient and well-organised, with their feet firmly on the ground. The man in charge is very charismatic, you should meet him, I think he's a Lord or something."

"_You_ are interested in politics?" Malfoy frowned at her.

"Oddly enough, witches can have opinions too," she raised her tiny hand for him to kiss, smiling sweetly as she walked away.

"I didn't mean that!" Lucius ran after her. "I know you do! That's why I love you!"

They both froze. Lucius felt his cheeks grow bright red in mortification under her steady gaze. Where had that come from? How painfully, dreadfully embarrassing. Mercifully, there was a sudden cracking sound, a scream and a splash on the other side of the hedge. Glad of the distraction, Lucius dashed over to see Rodolphus flailing wildly in the icy water of the large mermaid fountain in the sunken garden. Everyone was looking on in alarm, except Bellatrix, who was laughing uproariously, and Severus, who had his arms folded smugly across his chest. He shot a quick look at Lucius, who twinkled back at him.

…….

Rodolphus had been swiftly extricated from his chilly predicament once his friends finally tired of his yells. Rastaban had stalked off in disgust, keen to put as much distance as possible between himself and his idiot brother, who had apparently sunk to new depths (as it were) by allowing himself to be bested by a teenage boy unable to legally use magic. Lucius found him brooding in the library, standing on a ladder peering at the dusty volumes on one of the highest shelves.

"I've been thinking about what you told me last night," he said casually. Rastaban looked down at him with some condescension.

"I am amazed you can remember anything," he muttered, turning back to his inspection of the ancient tomes. Lucius was slightly irritated, but clamped down on it, continuing seriously.

"I feel as though we only scratched the surface last night. There is clearly much, much more to discuss," he added, trying to cover his unease with a casual tone. Rastaban glared down at him calculatingly for a few moments, before hopping excitedly down the ladder.

"I knew I could count on you, Malfoy," his eyes had taken on a gleam of interest. "Will you come up to London tomorrow?"

Lucius thought it over. It couldn't hurt to find out more. Lestrange had made some extremely interesting points during his rant, and he did have to go up to Gringott's anyway.

"Why not. Stay tonight and we'll floo over in the morning." Rastaban smiled and nodded.

"Excellent. There's someone I would really like you to meet."

…….

A/N: Ooh, guess who! That one took ages to update, sorry about that! Thanks for the many kind reviews – it's really heartening to get feedback! You're all so polite, bless you x.

In the previous chapter, I had Lucius wearing Chinese silk mourning robes. Apologies to those who pointed out that the Chinese do not wear black silk when mourning, I merely meant that he had chosen that sumptuous embroidered silk for his English-cut black robes. My Lucius has no particular links with Asia, we just both think he looks sexy in that fabric, hee hee x


	3. Beginnings

It was another freezing day in Diagon Alley, but the weather had not deterred hundreds of wizards and witches from trying to pick up a bargain or two on the first day of the January sales. Every building heaved with determined shoppers – Lucius suspected that many of them were not actually interested in purchasing anything, but after more than a week at home with their loved ones, they were seizing any excuse to get out of the house.

People greeted each other jovially in the street through layers of woolly scarves and ear-muffs.

"So nice to see you! How was your Christmas?" seemed to be the stock question. So far, Lucius had heard some interesting responses.

"It was OK, I'm glad it's over for another year!"

"Oh, I was _this_ close to poisoning my Mother-in-law's eggnog!"

"Got some good presents, but my little brother drove me up the wall!"

"Socks. Again. Do you know how many pairs of socks I have now?"

"Tradition be damned. I'm off to Barbados next year. Alone!"

"This is the first time I've been sober since 23rd December. I had forgotten how dull it feels."

Of course, all heads turned when he entered a building. Some spoke directly to him, others whispered in his wake. He had always been recognised and acknowledged by a few people everywhere he went, but today he was the centre of attention - he supposed that his father's death had been the only major news story over the holiday. The flattering picture of him standing pensively at the tomb-side which had appeared in yesterday's paper must have helped too. A tragic, rich, young wizard, cutting something of a dash in black; he sensed that some of the female eyes on him were not merely sympathetic, either.

Madam Malkin spotted him enter her shop, even through the throngs of clients feuding over the last pair of gloves and whatnot. She left the till and picked her way through to reach him, judiciously employing a stout hatpin where the crowd was too dense.

"Mr. Lucius…oh, I suppose you're Mr. Malfoy now," she gave him a small smile. "Those silk robes suited you a treat, if you don't mind me saying so."

"Thank you," he nodded sharply, enjoying his new role of 'troubled young man'. All heads in the boutique were now looking at him. He cultivated a brave smile to conceal his supposed inner pain. Ludicrous really, he thought, as I wouldn't have the Old Man back now, even if I were given the chance. This is my year. This is where it all begins.

A broad wizard with a pot belly had shouldered his way forward and held out his arms to envelope Lucius in a bone-crushing embrace.

"Malfoy, Malfoy, I was so sorry to hear about your father. I was away in the Maldives, otherwise I would have certainly been there at the funeral to support one of my own dear ex-students!" Lucius struggled free before his hair got too dishevelled.

"Thank you, Professor Slughorn. Kind of you to say so."

"The new term starts tomorrow," continued Slughorn in his booming voice. "Will you come back to school and take tea with me one afternoon? I'm sure you must miss the old place!" He accompanied the invitation with a breathtaking nudge to the ribs.

"Of course I miss Hogwarts!" he wheezed politely. Adding privately, 'Like a hole in the head'. He failed to understand why everyone became so misty-eyed over their regimented schooldays, when there was a whole, magnificent world for the adult wizard to explore beyond those dull castle walls.

Realising that he would get no serious shopping done in these conditions, he escaped from Madam Malkin's, hearing the whispers in his wake.

"So brave! Not a single tear!"

"That's a lot of responsibility for one so young! Poor lad!"

"Nice bum. Do you think he's a natural blond?"

The latter almost made him turn around and say something uncouth, but reminding himself that such tattling was beneath him, he continued on his way.

Flourish and Blott's was just as manic on the ground floor, where there was a special offer on the whole range of health books – from diet advice to hangover potions – the perfect solution to festive overindulgence. Remembering some of the comments he had overheard earlier, he smiled to see that 'Family Friction: How a Magical Mum can Keep her Cool' was being advertised at half-price.

He pushed his way past the staring faces to head up to the attic floor, where the less-popular, more specialist publications were kept on tightly-packed oak shelves. Some of them were straining fiercely at their chains. Occasionally, a scroll which was too broad for even the largest of the shelves, would start wailing tunelessly to itself from its box on the floor.

The place was cold, and the air smelt musty and ancient. The perfect habitat then, for Lucius' quarry. He had to be in here somewhere.

"Snape?" he called, not sure whether this qualified as a library and therefore necessitated whispering.

A juicy, snot-laden sniff answered from the farthest corner of the room. Lucius walked over cautiously, careful not to let his pristine fur cloak brush against any of the book-grime.

Snape was sitting cross legged on the floor, resting his elbows on a pile of enormous, silver-bound tomes as he flipped the page of one of the smaller books, thoroughly absorbed in what he was reading. Clearly in bookworm-heaven, he didn't spare Malfoy the merest glance.

"What are you reading, brat?" he asked, mildly piqued at the reminder that not every single wizard in the country was prepared to hang on his every word. Snape did not respond. Considering that he had now had just cause, Lucius leaned over and clipped him soundly alongside the ear.

"Ow!" Snape scowled at him in outrage over the top of the book.

"Don't ignore your elders when they speak to you," chastised Lucius, though he supposed that his smile somewhat negated the attempt at discipline _in loco parentis_, as it were. The boy muttered something scathing under his breath. "What did you say?" queried Lucius imperiously.

Snape stopped glaring and smirked.

"I said, 'wanker'," he clarified. A fast learner, he was across the room before Lucius could smack his other ear.

One short but intense scuffle later, actually a rather close tie, despite the age difference, the two young men were headed out of the bookshop in the direction of The Wildgoose Club. This Gentlewizard's club (No Familiars, No Muggle-borns, Absolutely No Witches,) was reached through an unremarkable black door in Seek Writ Passage, the narrow ginnal leading off Diagon Alley where the law firms practised. Established during the worst years of witch-hunting in the seventeenth century as the headquarters of resistance and revenge, its members tended to be a certain type of pure-blood from one of the Old Families; probably corpulent, possibly in-bred and definitely in possession of some vehement Traditional Opinions. One did not apply for membership of the Wildgoose Club – one would be nominated by three sponsors of long-established WG pedigree, interviewed by the Executive Recruitment Committee over a long lunch in a top restaurant of their choice (naturally, the tab would be picked up by the hopeful applicant. By some strange coincidence, the more expensive the meal, the greater one's chances of success), then subjected to an all-members secret ferret-ballot (white for 'accepted', black for 'denied').

To the casual observer, it appeared to be a ridiculously secretive organisation. But then, WG members would point out that most casual observers were unworthy of entry into the hallowed rooms, therefore only jealous. And anyway, they were unlikely to casually observe very much before having their eyelids hexed shut by the porters. Permanently.

Lucius delivered the scripted password exchange faultlessly, earning him an approving nod from Hubert, the Duty Porter. The door opened fully, allowing him into the immaculate lobby, their footsteps echoing off tiled floor, gilded mirrors, crystal chandeliers, exquisite china vases and portraits of deceased members. Hubert's approval ended abruptly on catching sight of Snape, slouching like an unwashed shadow behind Malfoy's billowing cloak.

"He can't come in here," Hubert glared down his fleshy nose at the teenager. His respect for the Wildgoose members bordered on mania for the most part, but infarctions of the Club rules were, to Hubert, more unforgivable than the actual Unforgivables. His family had been porters here since the club's inception. He would not become the first Hubert to let standards slip.

"I know he can't enter the club," Lucius tried his most endearing smile, yanking the boy's shoulders back to try and make him stand up straight. "But I thought he could stay in the lobby while I have my meeting. Or perhaps in the porters' office?"

Improbably, Snape was trying to look innocent. Hubert's glare swept up and down, his sharp gaze taking in the unruly hair, too-clever-by-half black eyes, snotty hooked nose, uneven grin, hand-me-down school cloak and scuffed brown boots with their threadbare laces trailing down onto the sumptuous hall rug. This creature treading the hallowed corridors of the Wildgoose Club? Let loose in one of the most respectable places in the Magical World? He wasn't buying it. Not for a minute.

"Out," said Hubert coldly.

"Look here, my good man," Lucius huffed.

"Out," the porter interrupted him.

"He's my…my ward!" he tried. "He is under the protection of the Malfoy family and as such…"

Hubert did not grin. Grinning showed disrespect, and all porters had been trained – or, _bred,_ in his own personal case – to respect their members at all times. Instead, he took a deep breath, puffing out his uniformed chest and raised an eyebrow in no uncertain terms.

"The young gentleman is a _member_?" he asked, with shimmering politeness.

"No, but…"

"Out!" He seized Snape by one of the cleaner parts of his cloak and frog-marched him to the door. Admitting defeat, Lucius reached in his pocket for a galleon and thrust it at Severus, who was muttering mutinously at the porter.

"Here, go to Fortesque's and wait for me," he instructed. Snape frowned at the galleon. Lucius rolled his eyes and brought out another. "There, brat. That's all the change I have. Not even you could demolish that much ice-cream. And stay out of trouble!"

"S'Okay," murmured the boy, dextrously pocketing the coins with one hand and deliberately wiping his nose noisily on the sleeve nearest to the porter. Hubert's upper lip gave a small twitch of distaste. "I can sit there and read my book." He waved the little volume he had been reading in Flourish and Blott's. Worryingly, it had a skull and crossbones stamped on the leather cover.

"Good," said Lucius, letting Hubert close the door on him with a barely-perceptible sigh of relief.

It was only as he was led down the swirling staircase a few minutes later that Malfoy realised he could not recall seeing Severus pay for the book.

…….

Snape emerged from Seek Writ Passage with a spring in his awkward step. The air seemed heavy with cold and the sky grey with low clouds – it would probably start snowing soon. They boy yanked his hood up over his head, enjoying the moment despite the biting cold. He was alone and unsupervised in Magical London, with an absolute fortune (two whole galleons!) in his pocket to spend on anything at all. The thought made him slightly dizzy as he trudged up the street, though he reined in his elation. An opportunity like this did not present itself every day, so he had better act carefully.

Reaching Fortesque's, he paused briefly to stare through a misty window at the idiotic nuclear families, plying their fat kids with sugary treats as though they hadn't already spent the last week and a half overindulging in the spirit of pointless festive gaiety. Even from outside, he could hear the dull chatter of the parents, the loud demands and crying of the spoiled children. There was clearly no point trying to get any reading done amidst such cacophony. He sneered at the whole pathetic place. Who needed ice-cream anyway? Or families, for that matter.

Pulling his cloak tighter around his skinny body, Snape slithered his way effortlessly through the crowds. He used his great talent for slipping unnoticed into small spaces, slowing for a moment to allow some bulging shopping bags to pass before ducking into the gap made in their wake, briefly slipstreaming a formidable witch in a vulture-topped hat who was barging her way up the street in such a titanic manner that people sprang out of her way.

"Frank!" she suddenly bellowed, stopping so abruptly in front of the pet shop that Snape almost ran into the back of her. Peering around, he spotted a Griffindor sixth-year, frozen sheepishly in the act of trying to swap a fat toad for some more interesting sort of pet. "You ungrateful child! Mother's present not good enough for you!" she began berating her son, who, despite being sixteen, a beater, at least six foot three inches tall and built like a walking advertisement for Myhunk's Meaty Musclebuilding Serum, was squirming like a scolded puppy.

Snape enjoyed the public humiliation with the rest of the gawping public for a little while, before the cold forced him to move on. Outside Quality Quidditch Supplies, the queue stretched right around the building, overseen menacingly by a security troll - apparently the management were taking no chances after the riot which had broken out during the previous year's January Sale on broomsticks. Knowing that even his new-found riches would not get him very far towards owning his own broom, that even the second hand cheaper models cost more than he could wheedle from his mother or Lucius during the course of a whole year, he hurried past the place of torture, flinching when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Dad, I _told_ you to get me one for Christmas," the tone was petulant, and mildly worried. "We'll be in this queue for _ages_ and there might not be any left. And they've only knocked forty galleons off the price! It's hardly worth standing in the cold for, is it, Dad? What'll we do if there are none left? My old broom is so out of date I'm a laughing stock! Sirius says no one else on the house teams has a two-year old broom! Dad?"

A jovial middle-aged man, unruffled by his son's whining, answered merrily,

"The best things come to those who wait, James! You'll enjoy it all the more for having earned it!"

"No I won't! And I _hate_ these new dragonhide boots. They're a _stupid_ colour. I wanted red ones!"

Severus sneered under his hood, cursing James Potter for being about to get a brand-new Comet, for hating an expensive pair of boots in a rare and high-quality material, for having a jolly father, for being rich, for being a pure-blood, for being a clueless idiot, for…for…well, for just existing, damn it.

He checked himself. He would not let a chance encounter with the blasted Potters spoil his excursion. Glancing around, he noticed that his furious stalk had carried him into unfamiliar territory. The shops were crammed closer together, their upper storeys overhanging in a way that blocked out most of the sky, and the few people here were not bustling noisily with their children and dogs, but hurrying from doorway to doorway in ones and twos, keeping their faces hidden and their bundles clutched against their chests.

With a thrill of delight and trepidation, Severus realised that he was in Knockturn Alley.

Alone.

Underneath his dark cloak, no one could see the enormous grin which split his face from ear to ear.

…….

Back at the Wildgoose Club, Rastaban Lestrange was introducing Lucius to a number of solemn-faced men. The younger man found that trying to appear mature and serious-minded required a substantial amount of effort when one was clad in nothing but a small, white, fluffy towel.

The commercial and political big business of wizarding Britain had been conducted in the steam-rooms of the WG for centuries, odd as it may seem. Meetings were frequently held on the marble benches, where the heat and near-nudity brought every man to the same level. It was impossible to sneer at the inferior cut of your rivals' robes, interfering women could not get in the way, wands had to be left outside lest the humidity warp the wood and no one could hide anything up their sleeves.

Sweating profusely and somewhat miffed that his face would undoubtedly now be a most unbecoming shade of pink, Lucius forced himself to concentrate, drawing a little comfort from the observation that his was by far the best body on display.

The proceedings were being chaired by Marcus Avery, a brown-haired, unremarkable-looking lawyer of about thirty, with a fine, clear voice. Lucius listened closely to what he said, desperately trying not to stare at his fascinating third nipple.

Many magical folk had them, Lucius knew, it was one of those odd quirks which the muggles had picked up on in the past as a supposed 'sign', but he had never actually seen one before. At school, Lucius had known that he was the object of many admiring and envious stares in the communal showers, so he had concentrated on posing as elegantly as he could, rather than checking out the paltry competition. Even during the summer, most of his associates would wear flowing robes rather than flaunting their bare flesh like the common people. He wondered whether Avery's extra teat was as sensitive as the others, or if it just felt like a normal piece of skin…

Silence had fallen. Lucius snapped himself out of his unwholesome ponderings to find everyone staring at him. Rastaban rescued the situation.

"Perhaps you should start at the beginning, Avery," he suggested, frowning slightly at Lucius.

"Please do so," said Lucius with dignity. A Malfoy never explained, nor did he apologise. Nodding earnestly, Avery began, a trail of sweat trickling down from second nipple to third. Malfoy stared determinedly at the ceiling and listened carefully this time.

"We believe the Magical Community to be in very real danger of extinction. Centuries of neglect have led us to deliberately render ourselves impotent, despite our status as the most powerful creatures on the planet. This is an unnatural state of affairs. In every ecosystem, the strongest species dominates the weaker, yet wizards are forced to conceal themselves and their superiority, living like vermin cowering in a hole." He paused, the handful of listeners made small sounds or gestures of agreement.

As Lucius contemplated his own riches, his standing and the lifestyle he led, two points occurred to him. Firstly, he strongly resented the comparison with vermin, yet Avery was correct. Wizards who were fifty times greater than the most skilled muggle should not make each other hide away, like mice avoiding a large but rather stupid clawless cat. Secondly, in a few years, he would be one of society's leading wizards – over the next few months he would lay plans to keep the name of Malfoy at the forefront of importance. Therefore, if Magical people reverted to their _natural _niche as top of the evolutionary ladder, Lucius would become one of the leading figures the entire country.

He turned the idea over in his head for a moment. Whichever way you looked at it, this was a sound theory. Putting it into practice, however, could prove a little tricky. He lounged back comfortably on the marble bench of the Hammam, hoping to project confidence and capability as he plastered his long hair back with perspiration and gave his companions a ghost of a smile.

"And how, exactly, do you propose that we rectify the situation?"

"His Lordship is a prudent man," said Avery smoothly. "He will not reveal details to anyone lacking the proper commitment to our cause."

"Naturally," acquiesced Lucius, reflecting that the authorities would probably be less than impressed by such radical ideas. But these particular authorities could not remain in a position of power for much longer, once every witch or wizard had realised the need for change. And who better to replace them than Lucius Malfoy – born to lead, bred to succeed. "When will I meet him? I shall be most interested in what he has to say."

Rastaban smiled knowingly. Avery peered through the steam to the clock on the wall.

"Perhaps you would care to join us for lunch upstairs in half an hour?" he suggested.

"I'd be delighted," replied Lucius.

…….

Never had Severus imagined the existence of such a place. Here, inside these shabby little buildings, resided the most wondrous objects he had ever seen – items which the books he read proclaimed to be destroyed, mythical, illegal or simply impossible sat calmly on shelves or in humdrum glass cases like diabolical treats in an infernal Honeyduke's.

A different sort of giddiness assailed the black-haired boy as he crossed the threshold of Borgin and Burke's, bringing forth a sensation similar to the warm wooziness engendered by the hot mulled wine at the Malfoy Manor Christmas party, yet at the same time utterly different. He knew immediately what it was. Books referred to it as the 'Pull of the Dark' or the 'Sinister Call'.

Smugness washed over Severus, knowing that only very powerful wizards could feel the darkness actively calling to them, though anyone with a spark of magic inside them could manipulate black magic to their own ends. In the same way a wand chose a wizard, not the other way round, the dark called gently to those who could best serve its ancient purposes, but leaving the final decision to them. Its recruitment was never brash or obvious, preferring a smouldering, unobtrusive reminder of the tremendous opportunities which could be obtained by acknowledgement.

Clearly, something very wicked was lurking in Borgin and Burke's just then, and Severus longed to find out exactly what was tickling at the magic inside his veins. However, Mr Burke was also being tickled by the extra sense possessed by shopkeepers everywhere and chose that moment to come charging out of the back room, puffy eyes scouring the shop for someone up-to-no-good. He caught sight of Snape hovering at the entrance.

"Out!" he said, in exactly the same tone the Wildgoose porter had used earlier, but with pure malice etched in every crag of his countenance. "No unaccompanied kids!"

"I was only…" began Severus in his most endearing tone.

"This ain't a toyshop! Now scoot before I set the vermicious knid on yer!"

Snape's black eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

"You are joking! A _real_ one? How interesting. May I see it?"

Burke glared suspiciously, flipping up a hinged piece of the counter and advancing on Severus with his wand out, showing hints of his family's infamous tendency to curse first and ask questions later.

"What do you know about vermicious knids? And who are you, anyway?"

Neither of them had noticed the other browser in the shop until a pale hand descended on Snape's shoulder, making him emit a sharp yelp.

"Thank you, Burke. The child is with me."

Burke hesitated at the sound of the smooth voice, glaring at Snape, who quickly nodded in confirmation.

"With you?" he wavered, still snarling slightly, squinting up at the taller adult. Snape did not dare to turn around to see who was holding him, but he had the impression of a tall figure standing very close behind him, heavily cloaked, judging by the way Burke was trying and failing to discern a face.

"With me," came the confirmation. The shopkeeper gave a grudging nod and returned to the counter, pausing as he closed the hatch to warn;

"Just make sure he stays out of trouble."

Severus bit back his snort. He hadn't managed thus far in his life. The hand lifted.

Turning slowly, he saw that his protector was bending over a low cabinet observing a miscellaneous collection of unusual implements, paying no further attention to him. Curious, but aware that he might still be ejected from the premises at any moment, he closed his eyes to try and sense if one particular object was giving him the Dark Call, or if it was merely a residual malevolence haunting a place were so much dark power had been stored through the centuries.

Getting no clear leads by remaining still, he began resting his hand limply in the air, moving it carefully above each object for a moment, expecting some kind of sensation – tingling, burning, anything. Finishing one side of the shop without success, he swung around without opening his eyes and was almost knocked over by the force of it. Snapping back to full alertness he realised where the darkness was coming from. Or rather, whom.

It was instinct – the same pure feeling of self-preservation which makes the nape of a human's neck prickle at the sound of a wolves howling – before Severus' brain had even had time to engage, his body had flung itself through the door and down the dingy street. Hearing a sound behind him, he pounded even faster down Knockturn Alley, dashing into a side street and crouching in a shadowy alcove behind somebody's dustbin hoping he wouldn't be seen.

"Oh dear," sighed a bored voice, right behind him. Snape whirled round which a squeak. It was impossible! How could that creature have already been there, lying in wait, when he had only just sprinted away from it? He hadn't heard it apparate. To terrified to move, Severus froze to the spot as the voice continued; "I had hoped that you would not be as stupid as most people. Obviously, I was mistaken."

Barely able to understand the words because of the pounding in his head and the intoxicating mix of adrenaline and Dark Call gushing around his uncooperative body, he glanced desperately around the passage for some means of escape. The other laughed like ice cracking on a frozen pond and closed the small gap between their bodies.

"I helped you, back there in the shop, and you ran away without thanking me. Didn't your mother ever tell you that one good turn deserves another?"

The snow began to fall in thick, heavy flakes, swirling lazily on its descent from the heavens down to the darker depths of the earth.

…….

AN: Thank you for sticking with me! I know this story is updated very infrequently, but I'm very glad you took the time to read this chapter. I'd love to know what you have to say!

I hope Mr Dahl (wherever his shadowy soul currently resides) will excuse me for borrowing his vermicious knids. I wish I were clever enough to invent words like that!

Severus loose in Knockturn Alley? That was never going to turn out well, was it? My little Severus is intended to be an unpleasant kid, but supremely intelligent and (I hope you'll agree) rather endearing in and odd sort of way. Lucius has some ambiguous paternal feelings towards him – I'll be developing this next time around.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed chapters 1 and 2! Love, SN x

PS Jame remind you of anyone?


	4. Responsibility

Hello! After six months, I've finally rediscovered my BYT muse! Remember this fic? No, I couldn't either, so I had to re-read it before I put finger to keyboard.

Warnings: Some rude words and some inappropriate attitudes towards mental illness, which, of course, I do not share. There's also a little – shock, horror – pre-_Het_ in here, but nothing juicy. The Slash is coming soon, promise. Thanks for reading x.

…….

It was an unusual lunch.

The dark wood panelling and leather-upholstered furniture of the Wildgoose Club's small dining room created a formal, masculine atmosphere, where the odd selection of wizards fringing the table talked seriously about serious topics.

Silent in his presidential state at the head of the proceedings, the man called Lord Voldemort listened impassively to the discussion. Lucius tried to study him whenever the sharp eyes pierced the between-course pipe smoke to focus on a speaker seated on the opposite side to him, but His Lordship seemed eerily sensitive to scrutiny. Seconds after daring to observe, Lucius would find himself breathless under the older man's stare.

So this was true power. Lucius had grown up in the same circles as the greatest people in the land. Ministers, aristocrats, intellectuals, military leaders; yet none of his father's acquaintances had projected such an essence of might and control as this handsome creature. Malfoy knew he stood no chance of understanding how this could be while in Voldemort's presence, so postponed his analysis until later, instead concentrating on the arguments of the other normal human beings in the room.

Oddly, His Lordship smirked at him at the very instant he reached this conclusion. Tiny wings fluttered in the pit of Lucius' stomach as he remembered something he had read in the darker section of his father's library. Impossible. No one could ever truly read the mind of another. The practice of Legilimency was just an Antiquarian myth, Sir Icarus had told him.

Wasn't it?

…….

Rastaban had spent the entire meal squabbling with an ill-favoured young man named Mulciber about the nature of Revolution. As they left Seek Writ Passage, the debate continued, as loud and unyielding as before. Lucius tuned out both impassioned voices as he reflected on his intriguing morning.

Mulciber was a slightly nerdy academic whose father had paid for him to indulge his passion for political theory by spending years studying social upheavals around the magical and muggle worlds, in the hope that he would use his knowledge to become a formidable Minister of Magic. Not every parent's plans for their offspring come to fruition, however, and instead of joining the Minstry, Mulciber had waded deeper and deeper into the scholarly side of politics, where his total lack of charisma proved more of an asset than a flaw. His first book 'How Not to Rule the World' was a scathing attack on all past and present systems of government had become a cult classic in anti-establishment circles. It had also given his mother a nervous breakdown as her pure-blooded friends requested her resignation from the Witches Institute, appalled at the idea of associating with such a subversive family. An indignant Mulciber Senior had cut his son off without a knut.

Mulciber was now working on his second book, 'Government: How to Get It Right'. Lucius frowned as something occurred to him.

"Who's financing your studies now, Mulciber?" he wondered aloud. Mulciber and Lestrange stopped their yelling match about whether the rights of the Individual could ever be reconciled with the needs of the State and stared at him.

"His Lordship is, of course," he said testily, as though that should have been perfectly obvious. "He's a very forward-thinking man."

"Oh," replied Lucius, frowning again. Interesting, he thought to himself. Why would such a powerful wizard waste his time and energy on castle-in-the-air concepts dreamed up by an unremarkable troublemaker with no social skills?

He needed to discuss all of this with someone. Someone intelligent. Someone who understood him, as well as the wider picture. Narcissa, of course. A small flicker of unidentifiable origin sizzled in his brain at the thought of so much cleverness in such a sensible and attractive package. Lestrange was glaring at him. Mulciber cleared his throat with revolting thoroughness and spat into the snow, apparently irritated at the interruption.

"Well, Gentlemen," he smiled at them before they could re-start the debate. "I think I shall leave you here. Will I see you tomorrow, Rastaban?"

Lestrange looked slightly taken aback.

"I was rather counting on dinner at the Manor with you," he complained. "And Mulciber is gagging to see your father's library."

"My library," he correctly politely, but with an authoritative tilt of his head. "I am invited to the Blacks' this evening. I'm sure you can get supper at the Leaky Cauldron. Good afternoon."

It was not that he minded playing the role of benefactor, Lucius mused as he crunched his way through the impacted snow towards Fortescue's, but it was necessary to remind his associates that despite being their contemporary, he was still socially superior. It was a difficult boundary to set. The young people who had spent New Year at Malfoy Manor were his closest friends – his dorm-mates, his future in-laws, the co-stars in his childhood games of pretend; they would always be welcome at his home, but they must learn to ask permission first.

His father's death had happened so recently that he was still coming to terms with the changes it had set in motion. The house and the money belonged to Lucius now, and learning to manage those two blessed burdens would take time. He had no wish to upset his friends by laying down the law, but for goodness' sake, when had _his_ library become a public resource? Mulciber had a significant amount of social climbing to do before he would set foot in that place. Lucius frowned. The charmless revolutionary probably ought to ask Severus' permission, too, as it was practically the younger boy's second home.

Malfoy arrived at the ice-cream parlour to find it heaving with exhausted parents trying to juggle armfuls of shopping bags and over-tired kids. The air was stuffy after a whole day of melted snow had evaporated in the considerable warmth of the shop, and Florean and his daughters were looking rather worn. Lucius picked his way through the tables without optimism. He could not imagine Severus wanting to spend any length of time in this kind of atmosphere, however absorbing his stolen book on poisons might be.

He nodded a greeting to Josiah Potter, who was heartily tucking into an enormous red and blue sundae with cocktail umbrellas and improbably-shaped wafers sticking out of the top. His messy-haired son bounced up and down in his seat with a small hot chocolate in one hand and a long, thin parcel wrapped in brown paper in the other.

"Lucius," smiled Josiah sadly, wiping a streak of fizzing blue sauce from his chin, "So sorry about old Icarus. I won't pretend we saw eye to eye, but he was a great man. His death leaves a hole in our world."

"Thank you, Mr Potter," he accepted the condolences, "I plan to fill that hole, Sir."

Potter smiled jovially and shook his hand.

"Good for you, my lad," he said.

"Daaaaad," interrupted his son, apparently about to explode with excitement. "Hurry up and eat that! I want to get home and try my new broom! Why did you have to get such a big ice-cream? I want to go now!"

Well, that settled the matter. There was no way Snape would voluntarily breathe the same air as that atrociously spoiled Gryffindor. Lucius would have to widen his search.

Half an hour later, he was growing more than a little irritated as shop after shop failed to yield the missing teenager. The snow was falling thickly now, blowing in his face and making visibility difficult, not to mention impacting under the pressure of bargain-hunters' feet until the ground became dangerously slippery. He was almost ready to give up and leave the wretched brat behind when he saw a slight figure sliding out of the entrance to Knockturn Alley. Lucius swore at his own stupidity for not looking there first of all. Of course Severus would be magnetically drawn to the darker and more interesting atmosphere of the forbidden street. Merlin only knew how he had spent his two galleons there.

He made his way carefully over and smacked Snape around the head in greeting.

"I thought I told you to stay in the ice-cream place?" His own voice sounded annoyed and Lucius realised that he had actually been rather worried. Snape said nothing, but his teeth were chattering of their own accord behind the greasy black strands of hair trailing like a grille over his face. "Oh, come on, Brat. Let's go home, it's bloody freezing."

Snape slithered up the stairs the minute they arrived back at the Manor, ignoring Lucius' offer of a warm brandy to take the edge off the chill. Kids today were odd, he reflected. At that age, Lucius and his contemporaries went to great lengths to procure any form of alcohol they could lay their desperate hands on, even going so far as to pinch the indescribably awful pink liqueur in a raspberry-shaped bottle which Flitwick kept stashed in the secret drawer of his desk. The indelible memory of fluorescent vomit spattering the green upholstery of the Slytherin common room could still turn Malfoy's stomach, five years later.

He summoned a crystal snifter and chose the least aged cognac from the cabinet – there was no need to waste the good stuff if warming charms were involved. He took a noseful, then a mouthful of the miraculous medicine and felt the heat spread outwards from his throat until all his extremities began to recover from the cold.

His head still buzzed overwhelmingly when he tried to organise his thoughts about his intriguing new acquaintance, Lord Voldemort. Narcissa had seemed very knowledgeable on the subject, the previous day. He was looking forward to talking things over with her – getting the opinion of another sensible, well-grounded human being, rather than relying on the hotheaded opinions of Lestrange or the odd lunch guests. Her family were expecting him for dinner, he remembered. What on earth ought he to wear? Being head of the family posed a whole new set of sartorial challenges. In addition to the usual need to appear simultaneously formal, wealthy, hip, powerful and devastatingly attractive, he now had to pull off stately venerability. And as he was still in official mourning, the whole lot would have to be executed in black, too. This look would take time to achieve.

Draining the dregs of his glass, he climbed the stairs, passing the place where his father had toppled over the banister without superstition and turning left towards his dressing room. He had not moved into the largest bedroom yet. Master of the house or not, he still expected to be roasted for intruding in his parents' private space as he had been as a small boy. Overcoming that obstacle would take a little more time.

The door to Snape's room was ajar when he reached the end of the corridor. Lucius' brow furrowed. This was not merely unusual, it was unheard of. Even when he was away at his mother's house or at school, the small area of Malfoy Manor designated as his own would be meticulously locked and warded, even against the elves. And not even Sir Icarus had dared try to disturb the brat when he was actually inside it. Not that he was afraid, exactly, more out of a well-founded suspicion that such a move would be somewhat ill-advised. _Draco dormiens _etc. Besides, the Malfoys had the run of every other room in the extensive property, why not let the kid have his own safe haven?

Peering through the doorway in the dim winter daylight, Lucius could make out the silhouette of Snape sitting on the edge of his bed. He was not sleeping, reading or visibly plotting, which was alarming enough, but as he got closer, Malfoy could see that he was shaking all over.

"Severus?" he ventured, stepping fully into the room. There was no answer. "Severus? What's the matter? Have you caught cold?"

The boy made no movement, except for the spasms of full-body shivering, and no sound at all. His eyes gazed sightlessly at a patch of floor on the other side of the room.

"Severus!" He strode over and seized Snape by the shoulder, rather alarmed to find there was still no reaction. The Lumos he cast in order to get a better look revealed his guest was soaked from head to toe, his face was white and icy to the touch and his thin, trembling lips were blue at the edges. Glazed black eyes remained as dead as glass, even when he clicked his fingers in front of them. Lucius swore and wondered what the hell was wrong. He had only left him alone for a few hours, what on earth could have happened during that time, in a packed shopping area in broad daylight? "Severus, can you hear me? I'm going to get these wet things off you now, then put you to bed and call a healer. Do you understand?"

He may as well have addressed the side-table for all the response he got.

Peeling away the sodden hand-me-down cloak was not pleasant. The thing was filthy and the lower edge was actually frozen stiff, sticking up at bizarre angles when he discarded it with disdain in a puddle on the floor. There was no sound but the staccato rhythm of Snape's teeth rattling as Lucius unwound the tattered scarf from around his neck and dropped it next to the cloak. His chilled fingers had undone the top two buttons of the jacket before he noticed _it_.

Eyes wide with terror, Lucius let his hands fall to his sides and backed away from the bed, his legs operating under some primeval preservation instinct rather than rational thought. He gave a little 'oof' of surprise when his bottom collided with the opposite wall, unable to reverse any further, unable to stop staring like a mesmerised creature facing the claws and teeth of its doom.

Even from this distance, it was still visible.

The unmistakable double red puncture mark over the jugular vein.

Lucius did not know how long he stood gaping helplessly, but rational thought only returned to his brain when the boy's eyelids slid closed and he collapsed forwards off the bed, landing in a heap as untidy as the ruined cloak next to him.

"Oh Merlin, oh Merlin, oh Merlin," he babbled, striding away from the wall and hovering over Severus, not knowing what to do. This was the problem with responsibility, his panicked mind decided. There was no higher authority to refer to in times of crisis. Two weeks ago he would have called his father in the certain knowledge that the older wizard would have expert ways of dealing with any given situation. Lucius suddenly felt very young and pathetic.

"Elf!" he hollered eventually, the distress call of the wealthy pureblood wizard.

"Master Malfoy, how can Dobby be helping?" Lucius felt his customary swell of irritation on seeing the youngest, most excitable member of the below-stairs household pop beaming into the room.

"Master Snape is unwell, put him to bed," he ordered. Dobby rushed to obey, getting as far as lying him down on top of the covers before he leaped back with an ear-splitting scream.

"_Bloodsucker!"_

"Of for the love of…" Lucius cursed the house-elf's natural flair for the hysteric. "Dobby, just…"

"Noooooo!" The elf screamed again and vanished.

All of Lucius' shock, fear and numbness evaporated in the wake of pure fury.

"You mutinous little fucker!" he yelled to the empty air, knowing that the heinous being would not fail to hear him. "You will go and break every bone in your repulsive little carcass for this! Then you can sleep outside in the snow until you catch hypothermia! Refuse your master's command once more and I will remove your every organ and feed them to the Wilkes' hell-hound!"

The anger made him feel much better, clearing his head and enabling him to focus once more. Severus had been bitten by a vampire, which meant that he was now either a vampire himself, a servant of the one who had fed from him, or…what was the other option? Lucius delved deep for his Defence Against the Dark Arts knowledge, buried beneath the more interesting facts he had learned since leaving school. Something about survival 'at a price'.

He knew that he was legally obliged to report the attack to the Ministry, as with any encroachment of a dark creature into normal magical society, but that would also mean trouble for Severus, most likely institutionalisation or, at best, permanent inclusion the Official Register for Victims of Dark Beings, which made a person practically unemployable.

Lucius wondered why he was even considering Snape's future civil liberties when at any moment, the brat could fly across the room and suck the life out of him, drop by crimson drop. Like most young people, he liked the idea of living forever, but eternity won by that particular route was oddly unappealing.

Yet again, his thought drifted to Narcissa Black. Intelligent, discreet and possessed of enough common sense to know that a hint of darkness could have its practical uses, she was the only one who could give him any sensible advice. Quashing his inner-childish concern that asking a girl for advice was rather a poofy course of action with the sensible argument that behind every great wizard was a razor sharp witch, usually clutching her wand and threatening all manner of terrors at the first hint of failure, he contacted his future wife for help.

"You realise that it can't have been a vampire," she stated calmly, ten minutes after being summoned from an afternoon of skating with her family. Lucius found it momentarily difficult to listen as she leaned her beautiful head over the unconscious Severus; blonde curls framing her perfect face like some kind of gold-leaf picture frame setting off a masterpiece.

"Mmph?" he managed, rather dimly, when she looked over at him for a response. She did not roll her eyes or mock his inattention, but spoke gently, reassuringly.

"This happened during the day, Lucius." A strand of hair had tumbled forwards and had adhered itself to the left-hand corner of her upper lip. It was absolutely fascinating, especially given the way her eyes were… "Lucius! Are you quite well?"

He jolted back to reality. Or rather, to the less captivating reality of being responsible for whatever unfortunate predicament Snape had propelled himself into this time.

"During the day, Narcissa?" he echoed, to prove he had heard some of her words. With endless patience she repeated herself, not losing one iota of her ethereal poise.

"Severus was attacked during the day. Vampires only walk abroad between sunset and sunrise - they are incapable of feeding until well after nightfall," she explained, and Lucius felt suddenly giddy with relief. He slid backwards into an armchair for fear his wobbling knee-joints should give out and dump him pathetically on the floor before this incredible girl.

"Of course. How sharp of you to notice," he chose to compliment her, rather than berate himself for failing to spot what even a muggle would have recognised as Undead Lore. There was no need to highlight his own stupidity. She smiled in acknowledgement and continued her inspection of the teenager.

"However, we do seem to have a problem here," Narcissa touched the bite wounds in Snape's neck gingerly. "Something sucked his blood and he's very weak because of it. We need to heal him, though I don't know how a healer can treat him if no one can tell what manner of creature was responsible. He might not be a vampire, but there could be serious side-effects from this."

"Perhaps he can tell us when he wakes up," Lucius leaned forward for a closer look, now his initial shock had worn off. Narcissa gave him a look which would have been reproachful, had it come from anyone else.

"Feel his pulse," she took his hand and guided the first two fingers to Severus' wrist, where something feeble throbbed at wide intervals within the cold flesh. Despite the unfortunate circumstances, Malfoy found it deliciously intimate, and oddly erotic to have Narcissa hold his hand while they both touched the senseless boy. He listened carefully "He's in a bad way, Lucius. He won't be able to tell anyone for a while, which leaves this up to you. You ought to take him to St Mungo's, let them run tests, inform the Ministry, take all the appropriate action for a dark creature attack."

"Which would condemn him to a life of paperwork, registers, suspicion; wouldn't he be legally obliged to declare himself a victim on every job application form?" Lucius remembered his godfather talking about a niece who had been scratched, but not bitten, by a werewolf. She had experienced no end of trouble in trying to open a bank account, despite not actually having been contaminated; it had also been taken into consideration every time one of her children had been taken to hospital as a result of a commonplace childhood accident, which they had all found utterly ridiculous.

"We could attempt to settle this privately, of course," she said quietly, releasing his hand and stepping away from the bed. "We could contact a private healer and no one would be any the wiser."

Lucius noticed that she had said 'we' when referring to the conspiracy. They were in this together. That felt…_right._

"This is going to affect his entire future," the gravity of the decision settled somewhere in the pit of Lucius' stomach. "If we keep it secret and anything serious happens…"

"People could get hurt," she mused. "Or Severus could suffer through not getting the proper treatment." She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked right at him, a rueful smile tugging at that lovely mouth. "I feel like we're a couple of parents, trying to do what's best."

_One day,_ he almost said aloud.

"Parents?" Something belatedly occurred to him. "I should speak to his mother!"

"Is that wise?" Narcissa glanced quickly at Severus and lowered her voice, even though there was little chance of him hearing. "I understood that she was…incapacitated."

"She's not an imbecile," he told her dryly, "I believe she merely has difficulty lying in the bed she made for herself. No, I should try and speak to her."

Narcissa nodded and looked at her watch.

"I need to be back to begin preparing for this evening's dinner in about half an hour. Mother always panics these days and rearranges the seating plan at least twice before we sit down, it takes a great deal of skill to make certain everyone is in the proper place. I can stay with Severus until you return, though," she smiled encouragingly and Lucius felt a wave of pleasure at her competence, her tact and the way her eyes shone in the half-light. He attempted to channel all of this admiration into his reply.

"Thank you," he said slowly.

She held his gaze all the way to the door.

…….

Lucius hated Otley Tower. Having grown up in the understated gorgeousness of Malfoy Manor, the sight of such a deliberately large and imposing house, devoid of anything pertaining to good taste never failed to set his teeth on edge. Arriving inside the stark Apparition Pavilion at the foot of the hill and being made to advance on foot, supposedly in awe of the monstrous structure, up the long driveway before reaching the forbidding spiked portcullis gave one time to reflect on how everything about the Prince residence was so utterly, irredeemably _wrong._

In 1572, Hugo de Malfoi had culminated a feud of dynastic proportions with a certain Long-Bottom clan, by killing Ulrich, contemporary head of the family, in a spectacular three-day wizards' duel. Celebrating this most palatable of victories in grand style, the de Malfois had all headed to London to show off with their friends, consequently being absent when the Widow Long-Bottom and her five daughters took revenge for Ulrich's death by razing Chateau Malfoi to the ground.

Unfazed, Hugo and his wife, Matilda, decided that the draughty old Norman keep had been a good five hundred years behind the fashion anyhow, so work began on a new residence. It took two years to design the manor to Matilda's exacting specifications. The place, she decreed, must be perfect in every respect. The finest Flemish tapestries were commissioned to laud the recent victory and the superiority of the family in general. Stained glass and sculpture came from the leading French workshops, magical painters from every country in Europe and the East to immortalise the wealthy family and their new habitat.

Since the muggles - bless their bumbling little hearts - had invented the sainted printing-press, a book was no longer a work of art to be treasured but a tool which could be studied, pored over, annotated and even destroyed without fear of repercussions for posterity. Hugo liked the feeling of power which learning fostered in his breast. He seized the architect's plan from his wife's jewelled fingers and tripled the dimensions of the new library.

When the grandiose scheme was completed, Hugo and Matilda surveyed their creation and saw that it was good. So good, in fact, so modern in its timelessness, that they decided it was time to let go of the past and embrace the exciting new age properly. It had been half a millennium since Guillaume de Malfoi had arrived as the only wizard in the entourage of that other Guillaume - the legendary William the Conqueror - and helped him violently subjugate the English population in the wake of the Norman invasion and the slaughter of King Harold. Why not finally embrace their adopted nationality and anglicise the old name?

The palatial new home was christened Malfoy Manor on Halloween, 1578.

Otley Tower pre-dated Lucius' house by at least two centuries and he firmly believed, as his ancestors had, that the Prince family was deceived in its general assumption that being older somehow made it better. The austere grey castle reared up on its moated mount; an ugly, phallic assertion of dominance over the wild Yorkshire Moors. Inside, the walls were bare, the floors cold and echoing and the visitor had no need of instruction in Prince history to know that no female hand had been permitted the freedom to soften the almost military angles of this boastful stronghold of power.

How ironic then, to find on nearing the tower, that the moat, like the power it was supposed to encircle, had completely dried up. Inside, the last of the Princes languished - the father, sick and poisoned by his own vitriol, the surviving son, locked in his turret so the world could never witness his insanity, and the daughter, Eileen. Severus' mother.

He arrived in the menacing entrance hall of the Tower and was greeted by a house elf with bandaged fingers and an eyepatch.

"Master Visitor?" it whimpered.

"I am here to see Mrs…" Lucius stopped himself just in time. There was a whole lexicon of words which one was did not pronounce whilst on Prince property, on pain of unpleasantness. 'Snape' was one of them. "Mistress Eileen," he corrected.

"Mistress is being up with Master Idiot," it informed him, with no apparent realisation of there being anything wrong with this form of address. "Will good Sir please be waiting in the Waiting Room while Tinny is fetching her?"

Most other large houses had 'Blue drawing-rooms' or 'South parlours' with pleasant artwork and furniture for guests to await their host in. The Princes had a perfectly Spartan 'Waiting-room' and one could either wait in it, or go away.

Lucius was eyeing the chunky wooden bench with distaste, wondering whether he could entrust his bottom to its uncomfortable and possibly splintery care, when he sensed another presence in the draughty ante-room.

"Good afternoon, Mistress Prince," he bowed low, once again careful not to make the 'Snape' mistake. She spat a harsh, mirthless cackle.

"Just Eileen, Lucius," the voice was low-pitched and grim. "I have no status in your world. Nor any other, for that matter."

Lucius had been taught that the true measure of good breeding hinged on one's ability to handle any given social situation so as to minimise any potential embarrassment to those present. It was a simple matter for a boy as keenly schooled as he had been, to overcome the awkwardness which radiated from this broken woman by the sheer force of good manners.

"You look well, madam," he lied, not allowing his eyes to linger on the sallow complexion, hollow black eyes or prematurely lined face. Before she could interject any measure of her natural sullen misery, he cut her off. "I apologise for troubling you, but this matter is rather important. It concerns Severus."

A spark flashed somewhere behind the dead eyes at the mention of the brat. Lucius was unable to read it exactly, but it seemed to be a simultaneous display of love, despair, disdain and dread. She passed a large hand over her plain face and sighed.

"Can't you deal with him?" she asked, apparently trying to sound annoyed, but being too exhausted to pull it off, as though she had given up long ago. It made sense that the Snape kid had such an unusual attitude to life, if this was the only person he spent time with outside of school and his sojourns at Malfoy Manor. No wonder he relished every moment in the immaculate and cheerful building, if this same cloying presence was the only other being imprisoned with him in their tiny muggle house. But he found he could not blame Eileen for turning out the way she had. Lucius' mother had explained it all in the nicest possible terms, years ago.

Eileen Prince had committed unforgivable sins, in the eyes of her father. The first had been to be born a girl, when he specifically needed sons. Romulus had buried two baby boys already. After Eileen's unfortunate birth came That Idiot, whose real name not even the elves could remember, then another brother who died falling out of an apple tree at the age of six.

Her next sin had been to grow into an unattractive young woman. Romulus resigned himself to 'only' having a daughter, comforted by the fact that he could use her to form links by marriage to other great families. Sadly, few young pure-blooded men showed any interest in being married to a plain, scowling girl from a dying line and despite Romulus' best efforts, no offers were forthcoming for her (coarse and dirty-nailed) hand.

Accepting that Eileen was no beauty, his last hope was that she might be intelligent and glorify the Prince name through politics or study, but her grades tended to fall below average and she showed no particular affinity for books.

In despair, he wrote a stern letter to her at Hogwarts, instructing her to at least make use of herself by cultivating a hobby. Did she choose the chess club, to develop her powers of strategy and thus help turn around the family fortunes? Flower-arranging or music, to help with the getting of a husband? Dancing, to counteract her natural ungainly clumsiness? No. She chose the least promising pastime of all, in Romulus' eyes, at least. Gobstones. A letter home explained that she found it fun. FUN! Romulus, raging and screaming obscenities at Fate, washed his hands of her completely after that.

It was perhaps no surprise then, that the unfortunate Eileen began avoiding wizarding society and sneaking out into muggle Leeds, where none of the young people at the dance halls and pubs had any expectations of her. Flattered by the first positive male attention she had ever received, Eileen unwisely accepted a drunken offer of marriage from a hook-nosed rock 'n' roller by the name of Toby Snape, who was intrigued by her posh accent and the slight other-worldly air she assumed in conversation. Not understanding that cars required petrol in order to travel, for instance. He found it cute. For about a year.

All in all, it had been a disaster, just as her enraged father had predicted on discovering their elopement. Five years after the wedding, Eileen found herself raising an awkward little boy alone in a claustrophobic terraced house in a dirty factory town, with no income, no help and no hope.

Blackness would descend at frequent intervals and, unable to cope with life among these alien creatures, who had lost their exoticism upon closer inspection of their dank pubs and smoky betting-shops, she would limp back to the Prince residence. Ignored by her father, she would curl up in her mad-but-cheerful brother's rooms until the worst of the gloom lifted and she was able to return to her life of independent drudgery.

Little Severus hated his barmy uncle, hated Otley Tower and hated his grandfather (it was mutual, naturally) almost as much as he hated spending time at Spinner's End, where the muggles mocked him and his broken home. The one glimmer of contentment in his young life began when he somehow endeared himself to Lady Aphrodite Malfoy when one of her visits coincided with one of his, and at her insistence started staying at the Manor during Eileen's bad patches instead.

When Lucius' sister Julia died, followed quickly by their heartbroken mother, Lucius and Icarus saw no reason to end the arrangement, the house feeling too big for just the two of them anyway.

"Eileen," Lucius wanted to convey the importance of the situation without distressing her any further. Who knew what kind of reaction this news could provoke in an unstable person. "Something serious has happened and a decision must be made…"

"Let him make it himself," she sighed, still holding her face in her hands. "He's a damn sight cleverer than me."

"He can't. You must understand…" he insisted.

"I will never understand that boy," her lip curled slightly. "I was so intent on making him respect books and strive for knowledge, to stand a chance of a decent future as a wizard, that he's already a much better person than I. I've turned him into a stranger."

Lucius was not sure how to answer that, so he ignored it, continuing breezily.

"Madam, he might be in danger. Miss Black and I think…"

"Miss Black pulled it off, didn't she?" Eileen interrupted again, lowering her hand so she could stare into space.

"I beg your pardon?" Concerned about what Narcissa had to do with the Prince family, he paid attention again.

"Flouted parental authority successfully by marrying that man. But pretty girls always succeed, don't they? If you're good-looking, you can be forgiven anything," she ended with a snarl, just as Lucius realised she was talking about Andromeda. He doubted that she would ever be forgiven for the misdemeanour, actually, especially since her name had been strategically erased from all family records, and That Sorry Business was never mentioned in polite society. Not that she or her husband gave a stuff. He made a last attempt to return her attention to her only son.

"Severus has got into a bit of trouble with…" Once again, he failed.

"Lucius," she glared at him. "You are intelligent, capable and incredibly wealthy. I am certain you are better equipped for dealing with whatever trouble he's in than a hopeless old hag like me."

Wading through the self-depreciation once again, Lucius realised that he really rather disliked this woman.

"He's your child, he could be in serious danger. Don't you _care?_" he asked in disbelief, hoping his own mother, wherever she was, could not see such a display of wanton disrespect towards an elder.

Eileen laughed her unpleasant, aggressive laugh again. Strands of black hair hung in front of her face like the grim bars of a prison, trapping her inside herself.

"I care enough to know that however bad things are, they will only get worse if I become involved." She turned her back on him and walked away.

As a seething Lucius strode out of Otley Tower, his calm, measured stride belying the fury her flagrant irresponsibility had unleashed inside him, he felt eyes boring into the back of his head. He swung round, expecting an elf or a cat, but the entrance hall was empty. Turning back with a shrug, he heard a sound a little like a giggle and scanned the vestibule more thoroughly.

Two hands were reaching through the solid stone balustrade winding alongside the spiral staircase which thrust upwards to all floors of the tower, gripping the masonry with long, thin fingers. Black eyes glittered from their hiding place.

A jolt of fear ran through Lucius.

"S…Severus?" he whispered incredulously. The brat was always lurking around Malfoy Manor like this, skulking on staircases and in dark recesses where he could see without being seen. Narcissa wouldn't have let him leave the bedroom in his weakened state. Something must have happened if he had escaped and wound up here, in the ancestral home he hated. He must have been turned into a lethal dark creature after all. Lucius reached for his wand.

"Ssseverus?" echoed a voice, teasingly, breaking out into hoots of laughter.

Ah. He relaxed. It must be the mad uncle.

"Hello," he called in a pleasant voice, suddenly interested in this well-kept secret, which the house of Prince was so ashamed of.

"Hello," the voice repeated, chuckling to itself again.

"IDIOT!" The bellow made both of them jump. A harsh male voice began swearing in the upper levels of the house and a middle-aged Severus, with a smaller nose and longer hair but otherwise an exact copy, leaped to his feet, stared wildly around him with terrified eyes and disapparated with a sharp crack. His obviously untrained magic was not very accurate as he appeared to have taken a few steps with him, leaving a hazardous hole gaping in the staircase with splinters of stone crumbling down onto the floor.

The yelling continued and Lucius headed for the Apparition Pavilion at the end of the long path with a sour taste in his mouth. He began to curse the Prince family until he realised that there was really no need. They were already cursed. The sun had long ago set on their influence, now even their name was trickling away. Romulus, though obviously still in fine voice, was dying; his daughter and grandson bore a name which he refused to speak; and his poor son was unlikely to bring any glory upon the house which had held him prisoner all his troubled life.

Rather than giving him any satisfaction, the revelation only reminded him that he, too, was currently the last of his line. It was up to him to make up for the previous generations of Malfoys' low birth rates. He should marry soon and have lots of sons. Daughters too. He was sure Narcissa would love a tribe of pretty girls to spoil, while he instilled Malfoy values into their clever, handsome boys.

Not quite yet, however. His wife-to-be had NEWTs to sit in the summer, then at least a year in Swiss finishing school before she would be in a position to perform properly as a society hostess. Enough time for him to make a name for himself within the exciting new political order of Lord Voldemort's.

…….

"What did she say?" Narcissa asked as he returned to Severus' bedroom. Nothing had changed in his absence, except that the weak winter light had faded and a lamp had been lit on the bedside table. The boy lay as lifeless and white as a wax doll.

"Nothing of use," he had no wish to go into the distasteful scenes at Otley Tower. "It's up to us."

She nodded quickly, as though she had been expecting this development.

"I think you should contact your private healer for the moment. We are due back at Hogwarts tomorrow evening," she reminded him. "The decision is yours, naturally, but I would suggest that instead of wasting a whole day on the train, we take your enchanted carriage as late as possible and I have a quiet word with the Slug when we get there."

"Perfect," Lucius wondered if this girl could possibly be any more wonderful. "Slughorn knows how to be discreet. He can keep an eye on Severus without telling Dumbledore or any of the others. He'll probably look on it as a purely Slytherin matter which is none of their business."

"I shall watch out for him, too, of course," said Narcissa.

"Such a responsible Head Girl," he smouldered at her.

"Such a caring guardian," she shot back at him, fluttering her lashes in a way which made it hard for Lucius to think rationally. She looked at the clock regretfully. "I must go home now, otherwise Bella will start deliberately making things difficult. Do you remember all those dreadful arguments at the Halloween feast? I discovered later that she spiked the port with Squabbling Serum. I have no wish to witness another social disaster in my own home."

"I wish you luck," he took her hand and kissed it, then remembering his earlier confusion about the meeting with Lord Voldemort, added, "I was rather hoping to discuss a few important matters with you, before all this happened."

"After dinner," she promised him. "Now, call your healer, while I run off to be a dutiful daughter."

"Thank you, Narcissa," Lucius smiled with unguarded warmth. "You have been amazing this afternoon."

"You did pretty well yourself," she laughed back.

Perhaps it had been a throwaway comment, a returned compliment given out of politeness, but somehow, the pressures of the day lessened after she made it. This had been the first test of his responsibility since his father's death. Until that moment, he hadn't been certain he would pass.

…….

AN: So, I wonder what actually bit the brat? Next time: Black family dinner, Snape wakes up and more from Lucius' noisy friends.

Thanks for sticking with this complicated old thing. I've obviously bitten off more than I can chew here, but sheer determination and bloody-mindedness won't let me discontinue it!

I think there's probably too much backstory – unfortunately the Malfoy and Prince family histories were the most fun to write! I'm sure everyone skips the bits they find dull anyway, so I accept no responsibility if you fell asleep.

Historian's note: the Normans (geographically Northern France, but a separate state at the time) invaded England in 1066, defeating King Harold at the Battle of Hastings, where half of the English ruling class died on the battlefield. The newcomers subdued the population by the sword and took over, building castles all over the place and imposing their own culture on the Saxons. I like to think Guillaume de Malfoi would have been a perfect devil to the poor, helpless inhabitants of Wiltshire.

Romulus – nothing to do with a certain werewolf, more to do with the last Roman Emperor.

Thanks again x


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